


Random

by Jusmine



Category: Alex Rider - Fandom
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-11
Updated: 2010-12-11
Packaged: 2017-10-13 15:22:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/138788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jusmine/pseuds/Jusmine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So, I've decided that I'm going to designate this story as a place to post short, random little pieces and drabbles. Some of them will probably be the result of listening to songs. Like the first chapter, "Unknown Fallen". I forgot to mention it before, but that one was the result of "Fallen, Not Forgotten" by Ray Boltz.</p></blockquote>





	1. Unknown Fallen

I've seen the way they look at you. I've heard what they say about you.

They say that you're in a gang, that you're a druggie. Pretty unimaginative, if that's all they can come up with to explain when you're gone, and the injuries you come back with.

They'll never know who you are, or what you've done. What you've done for _them_.

They don't know anything about you. They never will. They'll never understand.

But I do. I know what you've had to do to help them. I know what you've done to help _me._

They called me. The cold bastards called and told me in their cold-bastardly way that you'd died.

I wish now that I hadn't asked for the details. I wish that they hadn't told me that you died from the bad guys torturing you, because now I dream your death over and over again every night.

But sometimes I don't regret asking them. Dreams are the only way that I can see you now. I miss you so much.

You were so brave. I'm so proud of you. All those millions of people are still alive because you wouldn't give in to the pain, because you were _you_ , the whole world's hero.

My little hero.

It's Veterans Day back here in the States. Everywhere I go, whatever I watch on TV or listen to on the radio, they're remembering American military heroes. Everyone's remembering the sacrifices that their soldiers made and make.

But I'm the only one remembering a young British teenager with fair hair and beautiful, warm brown eyes that slowly turned jaded, then cold, as he was forced to give up everything.

They'd never understand you, even if they knew what you've done, even if they knew how many people you've saved.

Everyone here is remembering the "Fallen, not forgotten."

I'm just remembering the fallen hero that no one knew had fallen.

I'm just remembering the unknown fallen.


	2. Live Like You're Dying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've decided that I'm going to designate this story as a place to post short, random little pieces and drabbles. Some of them will probably be the result of listening to songs. Like the first chapter, "Unknown Fallen". I forgot to mention it before, but that one was the result of "Fallen, Not Forgotten" by Ray Boltz.

The moment Jack saw Alex walk through the door to the kitchen, she put her lunch down, dashed over and threw her arms around him.

"Ow," came the muffled voice from somewhere around her shoulder.

"Oh! Sorry!" Jack let go quickly, and stepped back to take a good look at her young charge.

Two weeks earlier, Jack had gotten a call from him at school, saying that some people from "Uncle Ian's bank" were there and needed to see him.

Now Alex was standing there, supporting his weight on his left leg to relieve his obviously injured right leg. His left arm was in a sling, and judging by how stiff he had been when she'd hugged him, he had at least a few broken ribs.

What she could see of his arms held a rather impressive array of purple bruises, and a deep purple shadow on his cheekbone.

He looked immensely weary and sore, but Jack still breathed a nearly silent sigh of relief. The tight feeling that was always in her chest when Alex was gone relaxed slightly. Alex was a wreck, but it could definitely have been worse.

He could have come home with a knife wound, or a bullet wound. Or, hell, he could've come home in a pine box.

Smiling, Jack reached for Alex's hand and pulled him toward the stairs.

Alex collapsed onto his bed without even removing his shoes. He was asleep as soon as, or possibly before, his head hit the pillow.

Jack fondly smiled down at him, and pulled his shoes off for him. Then she pulled a blanket up over the sleeping teen.

Alex woke up at about seven that evening. Only seven hours of sleep. Alex frowned. Normally he slept much longer than that after the stress and exertion of a mission.

Then his stomach growled and the mystery of the lack of sleep was solved.

He stumbled down the stairs, trying to not stress his current injures or add any new injuries.

In the kitchen, he stopped dead, and sniffed the air cautiously.

Jack was standing at counter with her back to him, putting some kind of food onto two plates.

"Come on in and sit down," she said without looking around.

"How'd you know I was here?" Alex asked. She was usually surprised when someone walked into a room without announcing their presence with trumpets and fanfare.

Jack finally turned around. "Well, for one thing, you weren't exactly being stealthy."

Alex conceded to that point with a shrug. He'd just gotten back from two weeks of being stealthy. That was quite enough sneaking around for a while, at least.

"For another, my adoptive Rider sense was tingling."

Alex burst out laughing, wincing slightly when his ribs twinged painfully.

He knew that Jack had noticed the wince because of the worried frown on her face. "What's for dinner?" he asked quickly to distract her.

She gave him a Look to let him know that he wasn't fooling her, but answered anyway. "Spaghetti," she said, then added, "With meat sauce."

Alex stared at her. "Jack!"

"What?" she replied, raising an eyebrow. "It's still your favorite, isn't it?"

"It must have taken at least twenty minutes to make that," Alex said, staring at her. "Who are you, and what have you done with Jack?"

Jack mock-glared at him. "Well, if you don't want any of it…" she said, moving to dump the plates in the trash.

"Oh, I want to eat it!" Alex said quickly. "Just surprised me, is all."

Jack grinned and sat down at the table with the two plates.

"Are we eating caveman style?" Alex asked, amused.

"What?" Jack asked bemusedly.

Alex nodded down at the table. "No silverware."

He moved to stand up, but Jack stood up first. "Sit," she ordered.

"I'm not a bloody dog," Alex protested as Jack collected silverware from the drawer.

"You're an injured teenager. I don't really see a difference," Jack replied, smirking.

Alex stuck his tongue out at her, but didn't say anything.

"What, no stunning retort? No stinging insult?" Jack gasped dramatically, returning to the table. "That's pathetic, Alex."

"Shut up and eat," Alex said lazily, smiling into his plate.

Later that night, Jack and Alex were sitting in the living room in front of the television.

Jack flipped the channel to _House_ , Alex's favorite show.

Alex looked over at her in surprise. "What're you doing?"

Jack stared blankly at him. "Watching TV," she said slowly.

"That's not what I meant," Alex rolled his eyes. "Isn't _Supernatural_ on tonight?" he asked, naming Jack's favorite show.

Jack shrugged. "I figured we'd watch your show tonight."

Alex reached over and grabbed the remote out of her hand, and turned the telly off.

"What was that for?" Jack squawked indignantly. She reached over to grab the remote back, but Alex held it out of her reach.

"Why are you doing all of this?" he asked her seriously, his brown eyes focused intently on her face.

"Doing what?" Jack asked innocently.

"Don't act dumb, Jack. The dinner, the show…"

Jack sighed. "I'm not allowed to be nice?"

"Last time I got back, it was the same routine."

"I repeat, I'm not allowed to be nice?" Jack turned away slightly, looking almost sad.

"Not that I don't appreciate it or anything," Alex said quickly. "I do. I just want to know _why_."

Jack turned back, and Alex was alarmed to see her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I never know if you're going to come back, Alex. It's killing me."

Alex opened his mouth to apologize, but Jack held up a hand. "Don't you _dare_ say you're sorry," she threatened. She paused a moment, then continued. "I, uh - I heard a song on the radio a few months back. It was called _Live Like You Were Dying_." Jack paused again. "It had some good advice, Alex," she said quietly. "So I'm going to treat you like this all the time. Get used to it, bud."

Alex nodded silently, and pretended that he didn't see the tears that Jack tried to surreptitiously wipe away.

He turned the telly back on and put his uninjured arm around Jack when she leaned over towards him.

Each time he returned from a mission, Jack made another of his favorite meals, and watched his favorite shows instead of her own. They once had a water balloon fight in their backyard, and Alex discovered that Jack had a mean throwing arm. They went to the cinema together to make fun of the horrible films, and Jack finally allowed Alex to teach her how to play football. He had been horrified when he'd found out that the only football Jack had ever played had been American football, so he of course rectified that immediately.

They formed almost a ritual of giving Alex a semblance of a normal life, giving him a major reality check after each mission until, finally, Alex faced the one situation that he couldn't get out of.

And even while he felt the life slipping out of him in the form of glistening, sticky red blood, Alex found that it didn't bother him as much as he'd thought it would. He might not have lived very long, but he'd accomplished things that most people don't even dream of, and he'd lived a fuller life than he'd believed possible since Ian had died.

He didn't want to leave Jack alone now, but she was strong, and she'd been preparing herself for this ever since MI6 had started blackmailing him

All in all, he didn't regret anything. After all, he'd spent the last year living like he was dying.


	3. Surprise Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex/OMC

Alex opened the door softly, after carefully dismantling the alarm and lock. It would be such a shame if he ended up alerting the others after he had spent so much energy sneaking in and knocking the guards out.

He slipped through the door, closed it, and found himself being shoved up against it. Huh. A guard he had missed. The man was tall, and rather muscular. "Who're you?" he snarled.

"Your worst nightmare," Alex smirked. The guard blinked at the incredibly stupid line, and Alex stomped on his foot, startling him. Alex took advantage of his distraction, and quickly spun him around so that the guard was the one pinned to the door.

Alex smirked again, and shoved the man's head back onto the door, hard, knocking him out.

Then he looked around the room. He saw the boy he was supposed to be rescuing. Josh Bruch, seventeen years old, with dark brown hair, and eyes that couldn't seem to decide between grey and gold. His face was pale except for the dark purple bruise surrounding his right eye.

It took a moment for Josh to figure out exactly what had just happened. Then he grinned. "That was bloody brilliant!" he enthused. "How'd you do that?"

Alex grinned slightly. "I'll teach you later," he offered. "Right now, we have to get out of here. I don't know how long it will take for the guards to be missed."

"Who are you, anyway?"

"Alex. MI6 sent me. Now follow me." Alex opened the door. Josh opened his mouth to ask another question, and Alex added in a whisper, "And be _quiet_."

Escaping the complex without getting caught was almost ridiculously easy, but that was fine with Alex. Not getting shot at on a mission was a welcome change.

When they slid out through a hole in the fence that Alex had cut earlier, they were faced with a few kilometers of woods to jog through.

Alex looked over at Josh after a kilometer or so to make sure that the other boy wasn't having too much trouble. To his surprise, Josh was happily running along, keeping even with Alex.

"Football," Josh said with an easy grin when he noticed Alex's surprised look.

"You play?" Alex asked, surprised again.

Josh grinned. "All the time."

"You've got pretty good endurance," Alex commented off-handedly.

"Thanks."

After that, they didn't say anything else, concentrating instead on running.

They didn't speak again until they reached the helicopter that was to take them back to London. Both boys were muddy, out of breath, and tired when they finally clambered into the helicopter.

The moment that Josh sat down on one of the surprisingly soft benches, he fell asleep. Alex understood completely. For Josh, the whole "captured and held captive by maniacs" gig was new and quite traumatizing. He probably hadn't slept much, if at all, during his three days of captivity.

Alex allowed himself a rest as well. He didn't actually fall asleep, though, he just dozed. The only time he allowed himself to rest completely was when he was in his own bed with a gun within easy reach.

When they landed back in London, Alex reached over and shook Josh, pulling back the moment that he woke up. "We're there," he said quietly.

The two boys clambered out of the helicopter, and were greeted by two emotionless men, who led them to Blunt's office.

There were three people in the office: Blunt, Mrs. Jones (sucking on the ever-present mint, of course) and a man that Alex had only ever seen on the television before.

The man's name was Jonathan Bruch. He was an influential politician, and Josh's father.

Bruch immediately walked over and hugged his son, ignoring the dried mud that was getting all over his designer suit.

Neither Josh nor Jonathan said anything, but Alex was glad to see real affection on the older man's face as he hugged his son. Alex had seen far too many rich and powerful parents who regarded their children simply as business ventures.

"Alex," Mrs. Jones greeted him with a very small, almost invisible smile. Alex nodded in return.

"Can we debrief later?" Alex asked. "I have a test tomorrow. I'm going to fail if I don't study."

Blunt nodded, barely inclining his head. "Be here tomorrow evening."

Alex nodded again, and walked back toward the door.

"Mr. Rider," Bruch said, and Alex halted.

"Yes, sir?"

Bruch let go of his son and held his hand out to Alex. "Thank you," he said simply.

Alex smiled slightly, and shook the man's hand.

Then he walked out into the hall. A few seconds later, he heard the door opening again, and footsteps behind him. He half-turned to see Josh running towards him.

"Thanks," Josh said when he reached Alex. "You saved my life."

"No problem."

"No problem?" Josh repeated incredulously. "You risked your life for mine, and you're saying it was easy?"

Alex shook his head. "Not easy," he disagreed. "Just worth it."

Josh blushed slightly. "Oh."

"Look, I've got to go alright?" Alex said. "I really do have to study."

"Yeah," Josh said. Alex walked away.

"Alex?" Josh asked.

"What?" he replied, not turning around this time.

"We should hang out sometime. Play football or something," Josh suggested, sounding almost hopeful.

Alex turned around. "Yeah, sure," he said, and Josh immediately brightened.

"Can I have your number or something?"

"Sure," Alex shrugged.

"What is it?" Josh asked, pulling a mobile out of his pocket. His father must have just given it to him.

Alex walked away again, calling, "They can give it to you," over his shoulder.

Two days later, Alex was sitting in the living room, watching the telly. Jack had gone shopping. They'd been planning on doing some yard work, but the steady rain had ruined those plans.

Alex had almost fallen asleep when he heard the knock on the door.

He flipped the television off, and walked over to the door. He opened it, ready to put up a fight if it was MI6 dragging him off for yet another mission.

Instead of the cold agent he had expected to see, he saw a wet and shivering Joshua Bruch.

"What're you doing here?" Alex asked, staring.

"Shivering," Josh replied dryly. "You gonna let me in?"

"How did you get my address?" Alex asked, not making any move to let Josh into the house.

"MI6, of course," Josh rolled his eyes. "C'mon, Alex! It's freezing!"

Alex finally stepped to the side and let Josh in.

"Well, it's about time," Josh muttered, stalking through the doorway, then shaking off like a dog.

Alex grinned. Josh looked ridiculous with his hair sticking out like that. He watched as Josh made himself at home and started exploring the room.

"Where are your parents?" Josh asked when he seemed to tire of exploring.

"Dead."

Josh winced. "Sorry."

Alex shrugged. "It's fine. I was only a few months old when they died."

"Oh," Josh said awkwardly. Then, "So do you live here alone?"

Alex shook his head. "Jack lives here, too. She's out shopping right now."

"Jack?" Josh asked.

"My… honorary sister, I guess," Alex shrugged.

"Oh," Josh said again.

They just stood there, staring at each other for a few long seconds. Alex finally broke the silence. "What are you doing here?"

"You owe me a game of football, don't you?" Josh replied with a grin.

"In the rain," Alex stated dubiously.

"It wasn't raining when I left home," Josh said.

"It started raining last night." Alex crossed his arms.

"I started walking last night?" the older boy tried.

Alex shook his head.

"Look, can't I just come over and hang out?" Josh asked. "You said I could."

"I did," Alex allowed. "But that doesn't explain why you _are_ here."

"Why wouldn't I be?" Josh asked blankly.

"Nobody ever has before. You're not the first teenager I've ever saved, Josh. A few of them said they'd call, too. None of them ever did."

"Why not?" Josh asked, puzzled. "Is there something about you that I don't know? Are you secretly a serial killer?" he joked, trying to act scared.

Alex smiled slightly. "No," he said softly. "I'm a reminder. None of them wanted to remember what I saved them from."

"That's a shitty reason," Josh stated flatly. "'Cause, I mean, you're probably one of the only people in the world who could understand what they're going through. All that PTSD stuff."

"Even if that were true, they wouldn't see it that way," Alex laughed humorlessly.

"Then they're idiots," Josh said simply.

"No," Alex shook his head. "Not idiots. Just scared."

"You're going to sit there and defend them even after they lied to you?" Josh asked in disbelief. "That's messed up, 'Lex."

"They didn't lie exactly," Alex said rolling his eyes. Then, " _Lex_?"

"Yep," Josh grinned cheerfully, a bit of a mood swing, really.

Alex frowned a little, but didn't protest the new nickname.

They fell into a silence again, but this one was not quite as tense as the one earlier. Again, it was Alex who broke it. "You never really answered my question."

Josh shrugged. "You also said that you'd teach me that brilliant spin thing."

"'Spin thing'?" Alex repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"Y'know," Josh made little hand gestures that were obviously intended to demonstrate something. At Alex's blank stare, he tried words again. "That thing you did when the guard had you pinned to the door. The spin thing."

Alex's expression cleared, and he nodded. "Yeah, I'll show you. C'mere," he beckoned with his fingers and led Josh over to a wall. There was a chair there, and Alex pushed it out of the way.

"You stand here," Alex instructed, pushing Josh against the wall. Alex pressed up against Josh. "Now do something to surprise me. Like stomping on my foot or - "

He was cut off by Josh's mouth on his. When Josh pulled his lips away, Alex found himself pinned up against the wall. He blinked. "That works, too, I guess," he laughed.

Josh blushed and smiled. "Would you mind if I - y'know, did it again?"

Alex considered it for a moment, then pulled his arms out of Josh's grasp.

The other boy's face fell, and he took a step back. Alex shook his head and put his hands on Josh's shoulders. "C'mere," he said, pulling him back up against himself. "I wouldn't mind if you did it again," he whispered.

Josh grinned in relief, leaned over, and kissed him again.


	4. Wake Up

Alex couldn't remember what it had been like when Jack had started living with him and Ian. He should remember; it had only been nine years ago. He should remember every little detail.

But he didn't. And, really, it didn't surprise him much. He couldn't even remember what she had looked like before she was lying in this hospital bed.

He couldn't remember her smile, or how she'd looked when she wasn't completely terrified, like she had been the last time that Alex had seen her awake.

He remembered the look of terror when they pulled the bag off of her head, and she saw Alex tied to the chair in the middle of the room, blood dripping from his various cuts. Or maybe the terror had been more for the gun pointed at her head.

Alex didn't remember much about what had happened after they had brought Jack in. He had let his composure and cool. If he had kept it together better, Jack wouldn't be lying here today.

If he hadn't been so goddamned _stupid_ , Jack wouldn't be lying here today.

If he hadn't been so good at his job that MI6 had kept blackmailing him, and he wouldn't have gotten so many, many enemies. If it hadn't been for that, Jack wouldn't have been lying here today.

But if it hadn't been for MI6, the same people that he blamed all of his enemies and injuries on, Jack wouldn't be alive at all.

For once, MI6 had come when he called them, and they saved Jack. But not before they made her scream to get to Alex. By the time MI6 had arrived, Jack's wrist was snapped, her leg was broken in three places from well-placed kicks, and she was all cut up by their large collection of knives.

Tommy Carver, the man running the whole show (of course Alex got the vague sadistic humor in the man's choice of "professional" name) had hit Jack hard in the head with the hilt of one of his knives. He'd said that her incessant screaming was getting on his nerves.

Or, at least, that's what Alex was pretty sure that he'd been going to say. The man had been shot by an MI6 agent before he could finish speaking.

Jack had fallen unconscious then, and now, two months later, she still hadn't woken up.

Alex had watched the shallow cuts and bruises on her face disappear. He'd watched as the bandages on his own wrists, which had been torn to shreds by the handcuffs that they'd fastened him to the chair with, had been removed, and the scars began the slow process of fading.

He'd watched her body slowly healing, but she still wouldn't wake up.

The doctors all said that it could be any day. She could wake up at any time. But Alex gathered from the surreptitious sympathetic glances that both he and Jack received from the nurses and doctors that she might very well never wake up.

He sat and stared at Jack, willing her to wake up.

An apologetic nurse quietly walked in sometime later and told Alex that he had to leave; visiting hours were over for the morning.

Alex did so, albeit very unwillingly.

When he returned that afternoon for the second round of visiting hours, he brought the huge pile of schoolwork that had been mercilessly, ruthlessly piling up.

He began methodically working his way through each subject. His eyes started blurring slightly during his maths. By geography, they would hardly stay open. Finally, they shut completely somewhere between science and French.

He startled awake at the slight rustle of sheets. Years of "learning the hard way" had taught him how to be instantly awake.

She wasn't sitting up, but Alex could see the beautiful gray of her eyes, staring up at the ceiling. He hadn't seen her eyes open for a long, long time.

"Jack," he whispered quietly, standing up slowly so that he wouldn't startle her. Wasted effort on the quiet front, though, as his textbooks made a loud bang when they fell out of his lap.

Alex froze when Jack flinched at the loud noise.

"Jack," he said again, louder this time. She looked over at him, seeing him there for the first time.

Then she was smiling at him, and he suddenly remembered. Jack had been wearing a brown band T-shirt the first time he saw her. And dark jeans with brand-new, bright white trainers.

The first thing that she'd done was kneel so that she was on the same level as Alex.

"Hey, Alex," she'd said cheerfully. "I'm going to take care of you, okay?"

Alex smiled at Jack, lying on the white bed. Earlier, the constant barrage of white had seemed cold and unwelcoming. Now it seemed warm, relaxing, comfortable.

The doctors had told Alex that once Jack woke up, it would take a while for her to regain motor skills, like talking. They were right; Jack couldn't talk yet.

But that was alright, because Alex knew exactly what she'd say. He saw it in her cheerful smile, in her warm gray eyes.

" _Hey, Alex. I'm going to take care of you, okay?"_


	5. After MI6

Forget _BC_ and _AD_. Alex tagged his life with _Before MI6_ and _After MI6._

Before MI6, if he saw someone being bullied at school, he wouldn't hesitate to help them. After MI6, he turned away and ignored it.

It wasn't that he didn't want to help the poor kid, he did want to. He felt guilty when he didn't. but at the same time, he couldn't risk accidentally hurting the relatively innocent bully.

The reasons for that were actually very selfish. It wasn't so much that he was just worrying about hurting the bully because he'd be hurting the bully so much as it was that he was too scared for himself.

It was bad enough when the person that he hurt was truly deserving. Even hurting the people who had huge plans to kill millions of people tore Alex up inside.

He was afraid. He was so, so afraid of losing himself to the darkness that he felt swarming through him, the darkness that he saw when he closed his eyes.

So he didn't help the smaller, bullied boy. And he didn't help the next time, or the time after that.

But then, one day he returned from a mission, and the first thing that he saw at school was the small boy being bullied again. It was worse than usual. His light brown hair was matted with sweat, and blood from a cut on his forehead.

And even while the bully continued to laugh and hit him, the smaller boy's eyes met Alex's across the yard. The blue eyes were resigned, and he didn't protest the hits and the treatment.

Alex didn't see the younger boy there anymore, being beaten. Instead, he saw himself, and the bully was MI6.

It terrified him to realize that he was just as unresisting as the small boy was being. Alex was allowing MI6 to push him around, he was allowing them to control him. They were forcing him to hurt people. They were forcing him to hurt himself over and over. They were taking away his fight.

And the worst thing was that Alex was _letting them_.

He was letting them control his life, just as he was standing by idly and watching the bully control the smaller boy.

Alex made his decision.

He walked with quick, sure steps over to bully and victim, and oh so very carefully, he punched the bully in the nose, quickly and still carefully following through with a kick to the stomach.

The bully was fairly obviously not used to being on this end of the beating. He fell to his knees, swearing at Alex in gasps.

Alex wanted to hit the bully again, to gain control over him. To just gain control over anything.

But he didn't. That would make him like MI6, and that was a fate worse even than being controlled himself.

Instead, Alex led the small boy away to the bathrooms. He cleaned the cuts gently, and watched as the helplessness left both of their faces in the mirror.

"Y'know," Alex said softly, "you shouldn't let people control you."

Now Alex tagged his life _Before, During,_ and _After._


	6. Conspiracy Theorist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please note: Alex is about eleven or twelve years old in this one.

Alex let himself into the house and deposited his ridiculously heavy school bag on the floor, out of the way.

He made his way to the stairs, more than ready to get rid of his school uniform and put on some comfortable clothes. He was on the third step when he stopped and frowned.

There were strange sounds coming from the kitchen. Quiet shrieks, a smattering of muffled whimpers, and a repetitive banging noise.

Alex was running before he even realized he was moving. He hurtled through the den and was about to slam through the door when he suddenly threw on the brakes. It didn't really _sound_ like anyone was attacking Jack.

Come to think of it… From the noises, it could be _very_ embarrassing for Alex if he were to walk in there now and Jack's current boyfriend was visiting.

There was another bang, and Alex flinched, a slight flush rising on his cheeks. But then he heard somebody running around the kitchen. Surely that wasn't normal in an… uh, sexual situation? Damned if he knew. He hadn't exactly ever done anything like… that.

"Oh, what the hell," he muttered finally, and opened the door a tiny bit. Just enough to see if he wanted to close it again, very quietly and _very_ quickly.

To his great relief, Jack was alone.

But what exactly she was doing, Alex couldn't quite figure out.

She was dashing around the kitchen like a maniac, hitting the linoleum floor with a saucepan as she went.

A much better source for the sound for the banging sound than the one that Alex had been half-expecting.

Alex tentatively opened the door further. Jack didn't even notice him standing there. She was too busy running, hitting, and alternating whimpers and shrieks.

Alex decided that there was only one explanation.

"Jack, this is England. Rain dances are completely unnecessary."

She whirled around at the sound of his voice. "Alex!" she shrieked, throwing herself at him. "They're trying to take over the kitchen!"

Alex cast a wary eye - hell, _two_ wary eyes - around the kitchen again.

There was no one there.

He looked back down at Jack, who was clinging to him. Her red hair was frizzing out in all directions, and her gray eyes were frantic. Panicked, even.

"I never labeled you for a conspiracy theorist," he said slowly.

The panicked look in Jack's eyes faded to confusion, then flashed to reproach. " _What_ are you on about?" she demanded. "We have a serious situation here!"

"All right," said Alex, deciding to humor her. "Where are the little green men?"

"Actually, they're gray," Jack corrected, pulling away from Alex and looking suspiciously around the room again. "They're here somewhere," she muttered

Alex swallowed nervously. He'd heard that all Americans were insane, but he'd always thought that Jack was immune to that particular trait. Apparently not.

Where was Ian? Didn't he realize that he'd left Alex home alone with an _American_? Alex was going to have to discuss this with him when he returned from his business trip.

"Jack," he said as gently as he could while keeping his voice from cracking. He grabbed her wrist and gently pulled her toward the door. "C'mon. You go lie down for a bit, and I'll get you some tea, all right?"

"You English and your bloody tea!" Jack snarled and impatiently pulled out of Alex's grasp. She resumed her dashing around the kitchen, even more frantic now than she had been earlier.

Alex's legs were frozen. He couldn't do anything but stare at the madwoman that Jack had morphed into while he was at school. His mind was moving along at a brisk speed, though, trying to figure out the best course of action.

Would it be best to leave her alone and call Ian?

Or maybe he should knock her out and _then_ call Ian?

Or maybe he should call 999?

No, he decided. He would call Ian and ask him what he should do.

He was creeping slowly back to the door, planning to rush to the telephone in the den. He was almost out of the door when Jack slammed down the saucepan again and let out a shout of triumph.

That cry would have set Alex sprinting for the telephone except for one thing: there was a gray, wiggling, tail-like thing sticking out from under the pan.

Alex stared at Jack's exhausted but exhilarated face. She was grinning in a very cat-that ate-the-canary way. Or, really, in a Jack-that-caught-the-mouse way he supposed, because that was obviously what was going on here.

Alex felt his knees go weak with relief. So Jack really _was_ immune to the American trait!

"Grab a piece of paper," she barked out, drill sergeant style.

Alex dashed off to his school bag and ripped a few sheets out of a notebook. He gave them to Jack, and watched, fascinated, as she used the paper to keep the mouse in the pan while she flipped it over.

Then she marched the mouse out of the house and to their neighbors' yard. "There," she said in a very satisfied tone. "They have a cat."

Once they were back in the kitchen, cleaning up the mess that Jack had made, she spoke again. "Alex," she said slowly. "Why did you take so long to get in here? You were standing outside the door for forever!"

"You knew I was there?" Alex asked, desperately trying to avoid answering the question.

"Obviously," Jack rolled her eyes. "I heard the door open before. And then you didn't go up the stairs."

"Oh, um… I was… er…. I really don't like mice!" Alex got out finally. Then he fled the room, hoping fervently that Jack hadn't noticed how red his face was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Dedication Number One:** The mouse that I found gnawing away inside my piano. Without said cretin, this particular plot mouse would have never been thought of. :D
> 
>  **Dedication Number Two:** I have to say, the bashing of myself and all other Americans is for Mad Mogg. ^_^
> 
> One last thing: The little green/gray men bit is actually a quote from an episode of Stargate: SG1.


	7. Normal

He heard the quiet sobbing dimly, as if from a great distance. He tried to reach her, blindly swimming through the darkness.

He hadn't meant to hurt her. He'd never meant to hurt her.

But it seemed that he couldn't _not_ hurt her, just because of who he was.

He knew that she had been so hopefully, _happy_ even. And she hadn't been happy in so long… but he couldn't help it. He hadn't meant for this to happen. He hadn't meant for anything like this to happen again. Ever.

He still didn't mean it to, wished that it hadn't.

That didn't change the fact that it _had_ happened, that he had hurt her _again_.

He'd gone out on the thinnest, most fragile proverbial fucking branch ever to ensure that this would never happen. Well, it looked like that branch had finally broken. It had held up for two months, though.

Two whole months where she was her normal self again. Dancing, singing, smiling, laughing. The works. Normal…

He snorted at his own thoughts What the fuck did "normal" even mean? He'd looked it up once.

" _Usual. Not abnormal. Regular. Natural."_

The thing was that, by that definition, this sort of thing was normal. For him, anyway. This sort of thing happened to him all the time. That made it _normal_.

Meaning that the life he used to have was no longer _normal_ for him.

Meaning that this was him, no matter how much he fought and scrambled to keep at least one foot firmly placed in the normal, no _other_ world. The world where teenagers didn't get randomly asked to take the weight of the lives of millions of people thrown onto their shoulders.

Both of them were clinging too tightly to this old definition of normal. But if they let go, if they started to embrace the new definition, there would be nothing to keep them from falling completely into the darkness.

Where they were now, at least they could _see_ the sun. It might be far, far away, unattainable, but at least it was there. At least they could _see_ it.

But any further down, and it would disappear forever.

So, he realized, they could cling forever, live in this nightmare, this limbo between two worlds, or they could let go, and not feel anything.

Chained to two worlds, being torn apart, or surrendering to the pull and surviving.

Constant pain, or nothing at all.

Corrupted, destroyed goodness, or evil, because nothing that could kill without feeling pain, or even just regret, could possibly be good.

Human, or a monster.

That was what it all came down to, really.

There was one other choice, but it would mean him facing the darkness alone. It would save her, but it might end up killing him. No, it _would_ end up killing him. Soon, or far down the road, he didn't know. But happen it would.

But, really, the effect on himself didn't matter to him. Not if it meant that she could survive.

Not if it meant that she could be _happy_ again.

When he finally clawed his way up to the surface, and found her, he'd made his decision.

He made her promises, false promises, his face carefully schooled to show emotion.

She believed them, accepted them with a smile. An actual, nothing held back _smile_.

He felt the faint tingling, the slight niggling of guilt, but he paid no mind to it. This was what he wanted, this was what he was doing this for. To see her happy and relaxed.

She was happy, chattering on about something that had happened when she was getting a cup of coffee.

He didn't know what she was saying, just nodded and smiled when it seemed appropriate. He was just drinking in the sight of her animated face. She hadn't looked like this in so long, not even the two months after he'd convinced MI6 that he really wasn't worth the trouble.

Even then, she hadn't truly believed him. He wasn't sure why she would believe him now. Maybe he'd gotten even better at lying.

Or maybe she'd gotten even better at deluding herself.

But the reasons didn't really matter. What mattered was that whether or not she was really happy, she believed that she was. It was definitely worth it, he decided. Definitely.

He took one last look at her smiling face, and then he let go.

It wasn't as world-shattering or melodramatic as he'd thought that it would be. He didn't suddenly not feel anything when he looked at her. He still cared for her, maybe even loved her still.

The bright white of the hospital room didn't suddenly seem darker.

And she didn't stop talking and stare at him like what would have happened in a film. No, she just continued talking, not even realizing that anything had just happened.

Well, that just proved to him that he'd only been holding on by a thread.

Really, the only difference that he felt was that he was no longer pretending to himself that there was any future, or any hope left for him in the whole world.

Two months later, Jack had gone to the store, leaving Alex the incredibly random task of sorting through an old box of photos.

He'd found a picture of himself a few years ago. It had taken him a few moments to realize that it even _was_ him.

He remembered it distantly, as if he was recalling someone else's life. Which, really, he almost was. The young boy in this photo was named Alex Rider, the same as him, but he'd changed too much to be at all related to the young, innocent boy in the photo.

The Alex in the photo was naïve. He believed in good things, in happy endings. _Happiness_.

Alex no longer believed in any of that. It was beyond impossible after everything that he'd witnessed.

The Alex in the photo wasn't shunned in school. His friends didn't think that he was a druggy. He wasn't failing all of his classes. Of course he wasn't. He always passed everything easily.

Now Alex would never even consider the possibility of simply raising his hand in class without being worried about someone seeing through his mask, or worrying about making himself a target.

The Alex in the photo did that automatically, excited to know something that the other kids didn't.

But photo Alex really didn't know anything. And that was fine with Alex, because if photo Alex had known what Alex knew, neither of them would be alive. They'd have died long ago.

But photo Alex lives on in Jack's hopeful memory, replacing the image of Alex whenever she looks at him. Alex knows that because when Jack looks at him, at first she looks like she's eating a lemon, and her face is tense. Then she relaxes, like she were eating a piece of chocolate cake.

For photo Alex, life was good. He was happy, loved, and could love in return. Life was a gift that he automatically reached out and grasped, eager to see what each new day would bring.

For Alex, life was anything but automatic. Sometimes he had to work to make himself breathe, because wouldn't it be easier, better even if he were to just stop? Stop breathing, stop pretending that it wasn't all pointless, stop _existing_ in a cruel world.

But he didn't. He kept breathing, kept pretending, kept existing. And why? Because the one that that was easy, that happened without him having to even think about it, was something that could help others, so that they wouldn't have to be like him.

The one thing that came to him easily was killing.

Alex can remember the time between being young, naïve Alex and hard, cold Alex.

The only time that he had ever been truly happy after Ian died, after everything started, was when he was at Malagosto.

At the time, that had terrified him, but now he wished that he could go back.

Go back to not acting all the time, holding up an impossible façade for the world to see. He wanted to go back to when things had made _sense_. To when there were good guys and bad guys, even if he had never been entirely sure who was which.

Most of all, he wanted to go back to training. The training had felt good, liberating, even. It was challenging, but not constantly life-threatening. He'd loved being tired every night from something that _he'd_ chosen, something that he liked, not hated.

Alex always felt an acute yearning when he thought back to Malagosto. He wanted everything to be easy again. But at the same time, he knew that that was impossible. He'd made his own choices in regards to Scorpia, and even if he believed them to be wrong now, it was too late. He couldn't change what had happened, what he'd done. Scorpia never forgives, Scorpia never forgets.

Now, all he could do was keep pretending, for Jack. Always for Jack.

For Jack, he stopped doing the one thing that he was comfortable doing now He didn't work for anybody. Not for Scorpia, not for MI6. He didn't save anyone anymore, and he didn't kill anyone anymore.

If Jack had thought that simply staying away from that world would heal him, she was wrong. It was making it worse, making _him_ worse.

He had meant to let go of Jack's world and fall completely, but she wouldn't let him. She didn't even realize that he was trying to let go, but she clung on to him anyway. He tried many times to get to MI6, to do something again, but she called him on his mobile constantly, keeping tabs on him and never letting him disappear again.

Now he was stuck again, somewhere between himself and normal.

Jack would never let him go, he realized that. The longer she clung to him, the more footholds he found to inch back up to normal, photo Alex. For Jack.

Always for Jack.


	8. Wall of Rider

The thing about cities is that they're always teeming with life, with the hustle and bustle of people. People of all races, all religions. People both good and bad, young and old. Taking a stroll or a jog, late for a meeting or football practice.

All of these things add up to represent life. Normal, usual, human life.

Once, Alex had been one of those thousands, millions, billions of people.

Once, Alex had been a part of that group of teens walking out of the cinema, or that group in the café, or that group laughing their way down the street.

Once, he had felt comfortable here, like he had _belonged_ here.

But that was before. That was before everything.

Now, he felt like an outsider. Now, he could never go back to being a normal teenager, to being a normal _anything_.

Even with Tom chattering away next to him as they walked to the store to pick up some bread for Jack, Alex felt like he didn't belong.

It was like there was an invisible wall between Alex and the world. An invisible wall made out of reinforced steel, with barbed wire, an alarm system, and teams of guard dogs patrolling on both sides.

Too impenetrable for anyone to get in to Alex. Not Jack or Tom or Sabina. And Alex couldn't get out, even if he wanted to.

He'd tried at first, but then he realized that it was probably a good thing, probably for the best. So he let it be now. He just watched the other world go by, and made only the absolute minimum of contact with anyone.

That worked well at school, where no one had been talking to him for the past few years, anyway.

No one except Tom, that is. Faithful, loyal Tom who never got the hint that Alex could hardly be considered human anymore. Tom who always sat with him at lunch when Alex wasn't away. Tom who always stood up for him when he either didn't stand up for himself, or when he was away. Tom who always tried to draw Alex into a conversation. Tom was always there, eager to give Alex someone to talk to.

And Alex appreciated that, he really did, but somehow, he knew, it would make everything worse in the end. Worse for Tom, or worse for himself, he wasn't quite sure, but it would make it worse.

Jack was like Tom, with the addition of warm hugs when Alex woke screaming from nightmares, or when something triggered memories from missions.

Jack also tried to get him to go to a psychiatrist, no matter how many times he told her no. The only psychiatrists that he would be able to talk to would be MI6's, and he made it a point to limit his interaction with _them_.

No matter how much Tom and Jack tried, Alex didn't open up to them. He _liked_ his wall. It was safe and comforting in a way that nothing else in his life was.

Not even Jack and Tom were safe for him. There was a large chance that one or both of them would end up dead, and then he would be even worse off.

So every time they tried to destroy his wall, he meticulously built it back up, bigger and better even than it was before.

And safe. Always safe.

Until that cool spring evening.

That evening when he walked into the house to two men dressed entirely in black, both with guns. One of the guns was held at Alex, the other at a struggling Jack.

"Alex Rider," the black-haired man, the one holding the gun on Alex, said. "Not exactly what I'd expected from the tales of your… _heroics_." The last word was laced with derision and scorn, as well as a fair bit of sarcasm.

"Tales are often misleading," Alex said calmly, almost flippantly. The men seemed to be amateurs, but they had guns, and anyone could get lucky with a gun in their hands. "Are you going to introduce yourselves?"

"We're the people who are going to kill you," the other, blond, man said, sounding rather pleased at the prospect.

"Really?" Alex asked, mock thoughtfully. "And here I thought you were selling girl scout cookies."

Both of the men narrowed their eyes. The blond man gripped Jack tighter, eliciting a whimper of pain through the duct tape gag, and more squirming.

"Sarcasm will get you killed, Alex," the black-haired man snarled.

"Or it'll get your petty little girlfriend here killed," the blond man added viciously, and Alex had to fight to keep the calm expression fixed firmly on his face.

"Really," he said, raising an eyebrow. He moved his hand slightly under his jacket, letting the men concentrate on his voice rather than his movements.

It worked.

"Yes, _really_ ," the black-haired man said irritably, as though he thought Alex wasn't taking this seriously enough.

"Pity," Alex replied, his hand reaching its goal and closing around the warmed metal of his gun. "Because that's not what it usually does at all," he continued sarcastically while simultaneously flicking the safety off with his finger.

This time, his voice didn't camouflage quite as well, and both men tensed at the muffled _click_.

Alex saw the blond man's finger tighten infinitesimally on the trigger of his gun, and he reacted instantly. He whipped the handgun out of its holster and the jacket and shot the blond man in the chest without hardly aiming.

There was the briefest millisecond of triumph until the blond man's body convulsed, and his gun went off, point-blank, at Jack's head.

Alex scrambled over to Jack's side, shooting the black-haired man on his way, almost as an afterthought.

Alex put a hand to her throat, checking for a pulse, and ruthlessly tramping down on the little voice of reason that insisted there was no possible way that she could be alive after that.

He started to shake uncontrollably when he felt no movement. The sobs were sticking in his throat, trying to choke him.

He couldn't cry, couldn't move, couldn't _breathe_. The only sound was the steady drip of blood from the bloody hole in Jack's head.

His wall had fallen.


End file.
